


Angels To Fly (Ed Sheeran Sherlock Series)

by wecantgigglejawn



Series: Ed Sheeran ( + Album) inspired Sherlock fics. [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Withdrawal, Ed Sheeran Sherlock series, Gen, Genderswap, Other, Parental Lestrade, Sherlock is a Girl's Name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 11:01:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2107347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wecantgigglejawn/pseuds/wecantgigglejawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Genderswapped Sherlock is suffering from cocaine withdrawal and finds solace in a long lost friend. (Platonic Relationship).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angels To Fly (Ed Sheeran Sherlock Series)

**Author's Note:**

> Part 1 of my Ed Sheeran ( + Album ) inspired Sherlock Series. There will be a 1,000 words ish fic (various pairings) for each song on the album, and they will be posted in the order of the album. This fic is based upon Ed Sheeran's "A Team" - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UAWcs5H-qgQ

Sherlock pulled her coat collar closer to her face, shielding herself from the bitter wind. The tap of her high-heels along the frosty pavement rang out in the silence of the early morning, the streets empty and eerily silent. Her hands shook slightly as she moved to do up the top button of her trademark Belstaff coat, and she swore under her breath at her body's betrayal. The transport was getting the better of her.Glancing up to ensure that nobody was watching her (“Except bloody Mycroft’s CCTV” she added to herself bitterly) she crossed the street and approached a small semi-detached house. 

Knocking sharply on the door with a leather-gloved hand, Sherlock took a moment to observe her surroundings, deducing what she could about the occupant. The façade of the house had not changed since she had last visited it some months ago, however the paint around the frame of the door had begun to peel, and the frosted glass in the middle of the door had a small chip in it. She picked absently at a bit of loose paint on the frame as she waited for the occupant of the house to come to the door - her hands were still shaking, she noticed with a grimace. 

As she noticed the shadow of the occupant coming down the stairs towards the door, Sherlock ran a hand through her unwashed hair self-consciously. Her usually meticulous standards of personal hygiene had been somewhat compromised by recent events, and she knew that her usually perfect curls would have been messed by the cold winds on the journey here. “Lestrade” she said, by way of greeting,when the door was opened to reveal a slightly bleary-eyed dressing gown clad man with an expression of perfect confusion. “Sherlock? What the hell?” he blurted, staring at her incredulously. “It’s two in the morning, for God’s sake!” he continued, ignoring the mildly amused half-smile beginning to form on Sherlock’s face. “I am aware, Greg.” she replied in her characteristic sarcastic drawl. “May I come in?” 

**  
“Sherl…” Lestrade said softly, watching her tap her fingernails against the teacup she was holding as she curled up into the corner of his sofa. She glanced up at him, cataloguing his concerned expression before looking away and pushing away the last half of the piece of toast that he had cajoled her into eating. Realising that this long-distance prodding was going to get him nowhere, he crossed the room and knelt in front of the sofa where she was sat. “Sherl.” he tried again, prodding her gently in the knee to get her attention. “I hate that” she muttered, turning her face away from him once more. “Okay fine, sorry - Sherlock.” he amended, running his thumb over the fabric of her jeans in an attempt to soothe her. She still wouldn't look at him, so he tentatively reached up and cupped her delicate face in his warm, calloused hand. The skin-to-skin contact startled her slightly, and she turned to face towards him, looking down at him with piercing blue eyes that sparkled with the moisture of un-shed tears. “Oh sweetheart…” he murmured, noticing the tears that were welling up and threatening to spill over. Sherlock turned away again, muttering to herself in an unsteady voice about the perils of sentiment and her bodys betrayal of her mind. Lestrade knew what had made her this upset, but he had never been able to get her to be open about the way that her cocaine addiction had affected her. She believed that the effects of the addiction were nothing more than her body betraying her - she refused to admit that it had affected her mind as much, if not more, than her body. He knew that she was experiencing withdrawal symptoms, and that she hadn’t been to any crime scenes in over a month, but he didn’t expect that it would come to the stage where he was crouched on the floor of his living room softly comforting a crying Sherlock Holmes. To see her display any outward sign of human emotion was so rare that it was almost terrifying. 

Tentatively taking Sherlock's hand in his, Lestrade helped her up off of the sofa and pulled her into a hug. Sherlock slowly wrapped her arms around his back, unsure of how to position herself. Her self-consciousness faded away as Lestrade slowly ran a hand up and down her back, soothing her. “You need to sleep, Sherl” murmured Lestrade, noticing the way that Sherlock had slumped against him, resting her weight against his body. Sherlock tried to form some sort of response, but all that emerged from her mouth was a non-committal hum. Lestrade smiled slightly to himself and set about leading Sherlock up the stairs to his bedroom. Putting Sherlock in his bed would mean a night on the sofa for him, but a sore neck was considerably less painful in the long run than an exhausted Sherlock without a cocaine supply. 

Lestrade tucked the bedsheets around Sherlock's half-asleep form and turned to leave the room. He had almost shut the door when he remembered that Sherlock often complained of being cold during the night - with a body mass as low as hers, it was hardly surprising. With this in mind, he crossed the room again and opened the wardrobe door slowly, so as to not disturb Sherlock's sleep. Reaching up to the shelf at the top of the wardrobe, he pulled down a soft patchwork blanket that his grandmother had made him when he was younger. Draping the blanket over Sherlock, he realised how young and peaceful she looked during sleep. Her lips were slightly parted, and her long dark eyelashes fanned across her sharp cheekbones. She looked peaceful, almost angelic. Lestrade reached over and brushed a stray curl off of her forehead before turning and leaving the room. Sherlock lay there, eyes closed but not yet quite asleep, her mind running with explanations and possibilities.


End file.
